


if I knew then

by torigates



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic, Future Fic, Injury Recovery, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torigates/pseuds/torigates
Summary: sometimes you get upset about people saying mean things about Dylan Strome on the internet and write nearly 9k of him being aggressively happy and loved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you get upset about people saying mean things about Dylan Strome on the internet and write nearly 9k of him being aggressively happy and loved.

Dylan threw his keys on the table inside the door and kicked off his shoes. The cool air conditioned temperature of his house hit him full force and he sighed. Even after living in Arizona for ten years, he still wasn’t used to this kind of heat in the early spring, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be. 

It was great for his tan, though. 

He walked to the fridge and pulled out his Brita water filter and poured himself a glass of water. It was nice and refreshing, and he was half-tempted to pour a glass over his head when he was done drinking. He had showered at the rink, of course, but between the heavy workout and the oppressive spring heat, he was still sweating. 

He drank another glass of water, and that helped a bit. 

He sighed. His whole body ached. Part of that was from the morning skate. Coach hadn’t gone easy on any of them, and Dylan had been out on the ice longer than almost anyone. Anderson, the new rookie, had shyly asked if he would be willing to stay after to work on faceoffs, and Dylan didn’t want to let the kid down. He could still remember what it felt like, being young and called up from the American league, wanting to make a good impression on his new captain. Dylan cut the kid some slack and stayed late. 

His back wasn’t thanking him for it now. It had been another long grind of a season, and from the looks of it, the Yotes were gearing up for another deep playoff run. Nothing was guaranteed, of course, and anything could happen in the playoffs, but Dylan had a good feeling about things this year. 

He pulled off his shirt, and scratched absently at his face. His beard was coming in pretty thick already, and he would have to decide if he was going to shave and give it a fresh start for the playoffs or keep it and let it grow really wild. A decision he could make tomorrow, or next week even, but it was something to think about. 

Crossing the kitchen, he threw the now sweaty t-shirt into the laundry room to deal with later. He would have to check his schedule to find out if the service was coming tomorrow or next week. The team had just got back from a long east coast roadie last night, and Dylan was turned around with his schedule. 

He opened the sliding door in his kitchen, stepping out into his backyard. The heat hit him immediately, and Dylan rolled his shoulders back like he could shake it off. The temperature settled like a warm blanket around him, and he sat down on one of his lawn chairs beside the pool. 

The water looked crisp and inviting, and he debated for a moment simply diving in with his clothes still on. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, but before he could set it on the table next to him, the screen lit up with a text notification. 

He smiled as he read it, and pressed the call button. 

“Miss me already?” Mitch said, instead of hello. 

Dylan rolled his eyes, not caring that Mitch couldn’t see him. They had known each other for long enough that Dylan had every confidence in Mitch to pick up on it. The fact that it was true, didn’t need to be said. 

“Hey buddy, you’re the one who texted me,” he said. His voice came out overly fond, and Dylan didn’t bother to disguise that. 

“You could have texted back,” Mitch pointed out. He didn’t exactly sound put out by Dylan’s phone call. 

“I could have,” Dylan agreed. 

“Hm,” Mitch said. Then, “How was practice?” 

Dylan told him about about team practice, and his extra session with Anderson. The kid was strong on his feet and had good hands. With a few key guys out of the lineup due to injury he could see extended playoff action. 

“God,” Mitch said. “That’s adorable. Were we ever that earnest?” 

Dylan knew he was. He still remembered what it was like his first full year on the roster, the way he stuck close to some of the older guys like a shadow hoping to soak everything up. “Absolutely,” he said with a laugh. “Probably worse.” 

Mitch scoffed. “No way, man. I was cool. I had _swagger_.” 

Dylan laughed. He could remember Mitch at nineteen, twenty. Back then he’d been mostly limbs and attitude. Not much has changed. “I think I still have Martin’s phone number,” Dylan said. “Should we call him and ask?” 

“Oh my god,” Mitch said with a laugh. “Let that old man enjoy his retirement in peace.” 

“Uh huh,” Dylan said, but he took pity on Mitch and changed the subject. “How was your practice?” 

“Ehhh,” Mitch said. 

Dylan waited. 

“Shoulder’s still bothering me,” he admitted. “Trainers think that’s probably the season.” 

“Shit,” Dylan said. Mitch hadn’t played in the game when the Yotes were in town. Precautionary, Mitch said at the time. 

“Probably surgery,” Mitch admitted. “But it can wait till the offseason, they think.” 

“If it’s the end of your season, why not do it now and have more time to recover?” Dylan asked. 

He listened as Mitch outlined the options the Leafs medical staff had gone over with him. It seemed there was a slight hope that surgery could be avoided through physio and they wanted to exhaust that option first. 

“I’m sorry about the season,” Dylan said when Mitch was done. 

Mitch let out a little huff. “Me too,” he admitted. “But I had a feeling for a while now.” 

“You never said anything.” 

Mitch sighed. “You guys are having such a good season, I didn’t want you to worry about me. There’ll be plenty of time to--” 

“Hey,” Dylan said. “You’re always a priority, okay? I want to know what’s going on with you.” 

Mitch let out a little sniff on the other end, and Dylan changed the topic. They chatted for a little while longer, mostly talking about their mutual friends, and how they thought the playoffs would shake out this season. “Connor’s going to win another Art Ross, I bet,” Mitch said. 

Dylan thought so too, but the race was pretty tight. “Is Matthews talking about the Rocket?” 

Mitch let out a snort. “He’s trying not to, but he’s checking the NHL app like after every game, so.” 

Dylan laughed. 

“So anyway,” Mitch said. “Your mom texted me, she wants to know if we should come down for your birthday.” 

“Why is my mom texting you?” Dylan asked. 

“Me and Trish are buds,” Mitch said. 

“Oh my god,” Dylan laughed. “You’re the worst.” 

“I don’t think I am,” Mitch said. “I kinda think I’m the best. And you agree.” 

“Nope,” Dylan said. 

“So birthday?” Mitch asked. “Since I’m pretty much out, mom and dad and I can probably all come. I’ll have to check it with the team…” 

Dylan was listening, but only vaguely as Mitch talked about their options for coming down to Arizona to see him for his birthday. He still got a thrill every time he heard Mitch refer to his parents as ‘mom and dad,’ even though he’d done it a million times. 

“Hey,” Dylan said. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Mitch said absently. “But okay, about flights…” 

Dylan shook his head, laughing silently. He put Mitch on speaker phone so he could pull out his calendar app, and the two of them set about making it work.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was up for an hour by the time Dylan pulled himself out of bed, but it was still ridiculously early. Winter was always going to be his favourite season, for obvious reasons, but Dylan thrived off sunshine. After a decade of living in Scottsdale, he would hope so. 

The Northern Ontario sun shining down on him now felt noticeably different. Mitch said he was imagining things every time Dylan remarked on it, but Dylan knew the truth. “You’ve lived in Toronto your whole life,” Dylan said, every time. “What do you know about heat?” 

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” Mitch always shot back. 

That was true, although Dylan never admitted it out loud. It was barely seven am and Dylan could already feel the mugginess that would descend on them, hovering in the air like a threat. 

Hoping to enjoy some of the night’s lingering coolness, Dylan took his coffee out onto the deck. The early morning rays glinted off the lake, and Dylan squinted, bringing his hand up to his face to shield his eyes. The next door neighbour was already out on the dook, casting her fishing line out into the water. Dylan held up his hand in greeting, but didn’t call out, not wanting to scare away her potential catch. 

Dylan settled into one of their Muskoka chairs, his coffee cup balanced on the armrest. He tilted his head back and let the sun shine down on him. His skin was a bit tender from spending yesterday on the dock. He’d have to be more vigilant with his sunscreen application today. 

Dylan loved it out here. Mitch bought this place years ago, after signing his first contract extension with the Leafs. Dylan had paid off the mortgage two years later when the Yotes gave him his own payday. By then, things had felt less like a competition between them, and the extra years he’d spent in the O and the A developing hardly mattered. His agent had negotiated him a decent bridge contract, and it paid off in the end. 

Mitch’s parents had been weird about--a lot of things, really--the size of the place, Dylan’s name going on the title, Mitch spending his money. They weren’t badly off, not by any means, but the more time Dylan spent with Mitch, the more he’d grown to realise the Marners had a different relationship with money--and their son--than Dylan was used to. It hardly mattered now, a little awkwardness at the holidays wasn’t almost not worth mentioning, but Dylan saw the way Paul’s mouth would pinch tight, the way Mitch’s shoulders drew up around his neck. 

He tried to make up for it with his own family, and for the most part Dylan thought that he did. Mitch didn’t like talking about it, and Dylan did his best to respect that. 

The sun was fully risen, and Dylan was on his third cup of coffee by the time Mitch made his way out to join him. 

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he said with a smile. “How’s your shoulder?” 

Mitch scowled at him, but most of the ferociousness Dylan was sure he was going for was lost by the pillow lines that still criss crossed his face, and the serious case of bedhead he was sporting. His hair was longer than Dylan was used to seeing. Long after Lou was gone from his role as GM, Mitch had kept the habit of keeping his hair short and his face shorn. Dylan still teased him over his inability to grow a beard. 

“I can _grow_ a beard,” Mitch said. 

“That’s not what your last three playoff runs would suggest.” 

The Leafs missed the playoffs by a margin this year, mostly due to a roster depleted by injuries and a surging Atlantic division. The Yotes had a deep run, as Dylan predicted, losing out in a devastating Western Conference Final. Dylan was maybe still sulking about it, just a bit. 

“Shoulder’s fine,” Mitch said, but Dylan had his doubts. He was only a month post op, and Dylan knew the recovery wasn’t going as well as Mitch hoped. They were both newly thirty, bodies not as resilient as they used to be. 

Before Dylan could push Mitch for more, he plopped himself down in Dylan’s lap, their combined weight sinking the two of them into the bottom of the deep chair. He plucked the coffee right out of Dylan’s hand and took a deep sip. 

“Ah,” he said, sighing deeply. 

“Excuse you,” Dylan said. 

Mitch smiled at him. Dylan wished he could say after more than a decade of he was immune to Mitch’s familiar grin, but his stomach still turned over the same way it did when he was seventeen with alarming frequency. 

“Get your own coffee,” he said, if only out of habit. 

“Why should I, when I can share yours?” Mitch asked. 

“You’re not charming,” Dylan said.

Mitch leaned in and bit the hinge of Dylan’s jaw. “You’re a liar,” he said, breath tickling Dylan’s ear. 

Despite the heat that was already nearly oppressive, Dylan shivered. He knew Mitch saw it, because Dylan could feel the way he grinned, mouth pressed up against Dylan’s skin. Mitch didn’t say anything, showing an uncharacteristic maturity. Either that, or his shoulder was bothering him more than he let on. Dylan brought the palm of his hand up to rub Mitch’s back, careful not to apply too much pressure. 

“Sure you’re okay?” he asked. 

Mitch turned his body, so he could settle more comfortably on Dylan’s lap. His back was pressed against Dylan’s chest, legs spread out on either side of Dylan’s thighs. His knees were just as knobby as Dylan remembered them being at seventeen, although there was considerably more bulk on the rest of him. 

“I’m fine,” Mitch said. He took another sip of Dylan’s coffee, and then, when Dylan didn’t say anything. “Stop worrying.” 

“Kinda comes with the package,” Dylan said. He wrapped his arm around Mitch’s waist, patting his stomach. 

Mitch smiled. Even though his face was turned away towards the lake, Dylan could tell from the way he hummed, a comforting rumble Dylan could feel all along his chest. It was a sound he was intimately familiar with, and one that had been lacking these last few months. 

Dylan knew Mitch was worried about his recovery. Even before Mitch disclosed how bad the injury was, he knew something was up. The Leafs trainers and management had hoped he’d recover with rest and rehab, but as the season wore down and Mitch sat out more and more games, it became apparent that wasn’t going to be the case. 

His surgery had happened with Dylan still in Arizona, fighting against the Ducks in the Western semi-final. Dylan tried his best to keep his head in the game, but the team dragged themselves through seven gruelling games, mostly with no thanks to Dylan. 

“You’re playing like shit,” Mitch said, after the Yotes had dropped game five, and fell behind in the series two to three. 

“Excuse me if I’m a little preoccupied!” Dylan shot back, angry and more than a little mean. 

“Well, fucking get unpreoccupied,” Mitch shot back. “Do you want to win the Stanley Cup or not?” 

Dylan did, of course he fucking did, but what he wanted the most was for Mitch to stop looking so pinched around the eyes when he thought Dylan wasn’t looking. He wanted his boyfriend to be healthy and happy, and he wanted that more than he wanted any dumb fucking trophy. It was, perhaps, a startling revelation. Or maybe not. 

“Of course,” he said, because that was the only answer Mitch would accept. 

In the end, it had been out of Dylan’s hands, and Dylan got to go home. He only felt a little guilty about it, and mostly only when Mitch snapped at Dylan for hovering. 

The week at the cottage was Mitch’s idea, most likely only suggested because he’d end up murdering Dylan if they spent any more time just the two of them in the downtown condo. Normally they didn’t go Muskoka until later in the season, letting friends and family use it while they recuperated from the season. 

Getting away early this year was a good idea. It didn’t stop Dylan from hovering, but every time he got close, Mitch threatened to push him off the dock. He actually followed through, after Dylan asked one time too many if Mitch needed any pain meds. 

For the most part it was just the two of them lounging on their deck, drinking beer, reading books, and catching fish. Dylan took one of their seadoos out on the water a couple times, but Mitch’s sutures were still healing so he was mostly avoiding the lake, and going out without him wasn’t as fun. 

Dylan didn’t mind. They spent so much time apart during the season, it was nice to just be close to one another, even before Dylan’s nursemaid tendencies. Mitch allowed Dylan to fuss over him with sunscreen, although he did get a bit tetchy when Dylan woke him up from his nap to apply a fresh coat. Maybe squirting the cold lotion directly onto his stomach while he was sleeping wasn’t the best strategy. 

It was hilarious though. 

For now, Mitch wrapped his arm around Dylan’s shoulders, and the two of them sat quietly on their deck, sharing the last of Dylan’s cup of coffee. 

“What do you want to do today?” Dylan asked. 

Mitch hummed, tilting his head back to look at the sky. It was a crisp, cloudless blue, bright against the treeline. Somewhere off in the distance, Dylan could hear the faint sound of a motorboat on the water, it’s engine rumbling. 

“Marns?” Dylan asked, when Mitch stayed quiet. 

“Dunno,” he said. 

“We could go into town,” Dylan suggested. “Get lunch, and pick up a few groceries.” Mitch nodded absently. “Or take the boat out on the water, maybe pop in to Sylvia and Janet’s place.” Their neighbours across the lake were a couple in their sixties. They stayed up at the cottage all summer, and often had Mitch and Dylan over for dinner. 

“Maybe,” Mitch said. 

“Or we could just hang out on the dock? Take it easy?” 

Mitch nodded, eyes scanning across the lake. 

“Marns?” Dylan asked. “What do you think?” 

Mitch used the hand wrapped around Dylan’s neck, bringing his palm up to cover Dylan’s mouth. “Shh,” he said. 

“Okay, but--” The words came out muffled against Mitch’s palm, and he only tightened his grip until Dylan stopped trying to talk. 

“Don’t worry so much,” Mitch said. Dylan felt like he had been worrying since Mitch told him his season was done. Since before that, really, since he saw the replay of Mitch getting checked into the boards, and needing Nylander and a trainer’s help to get back up. 

But Mitch was warm and solid against his body now, their skin already starting to stick together with sweat. “We’ll figure it out in a bit,” he said, pulling his hand away when Dylan nodded, letting himself slowly relax back into the chair.


	3. Chapter 3

August in Toronto was muggy as fuck. 

As a native, Dylan should be used to it, but Arizona heat was so much different he forgot every year. 

He was dripping with sweat by the time he finished his run, and looking forward to a nice long shower. He dropped his keys onto the table beside the front entrance and stripped off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. Mitch would bitch at him about it later, but Dylan was almost looking forward to it, in a way. 

He would be back in Arizona in a few short weeks, with no one to complain about him leaving his dirty laundry all over the place except for his cleaning staff. They were too polite to say anything. 

Leaving Mitch at the end of the offseason had never been easy, but Dylan was noticing it more and more each year. He wasn’t ready to stop playing, not by a long shot. If he was lucky he would have close to ten years left in him, but another decade stealing only a few months each year with Mitch… It wasn’t something he liked to think about. 

He made his way slowly into the condo, stopping in the kitchen for something to drink. He could hear the water running through the pipes, letting him know the shower was on. He drank his Gatorade quickly, leaving a trail of more sweaty clothes as he walked towards their bedroom. 

The ensuite door was open, and Dylan could see Mitch through the clear glass of their shower. The walls were steamed up, but only a little, and Dylan took a moment to admire Mitch’s body. His back was to Dylan, showing off the long line of his spine. His shoulders were a little less broad than they would normally be this time of year, the result of Mitch’s surgery and recovery. 

Dylan worried about him playing this year before he was ready, but Mitch kept insisting he was fine. Dylan let it go because he knew that if he were in the same position it wouldn’t stop him from playing. That didn’t keep him from worrying, though. 

Now, he allowed himself to get distracted by Mitch’s trim waist, the way it tapered down to his ass. The thick lines of muscle in his hamstrings. Dylan watched for a moment, unashamed, until Mitch looked over his shoulder and caught Dylan staring. He winked. 

Dylan laughed, and quickly stripped out of the last of his clothes, going to join Mitch in the shower. 

“When I get out, am I going to find your shit all over the apartment?” was the first thing Mitch said to him. 

Dylan leaned in for a kiss, hoping to distract him. Mitch kissed back, arms going up automatically to wrap around Dylan’s shoulders. Dylan’s hands fell to Mitch’s waist, careful of his shoulder, even after all this time. 

Mitch sighed against his mouth. 

“What?” Dylan asked. 

Mitch shook his head, leaning in for another kiss, but Dylan pulled back. 

“No, really. What?” 

Mitch gave him the stink eye, but Dylan was an expert at interpreting Mitch Marner’s expressions. If he held out, Mitch would cave. The water beat down on them for another moment, and then sure enough--

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me,” Mitch said. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dylan asked. 

Mitch sighed again. He reached for the shampoo, and poured some into his hand. He lathered them together, and then reached up, running his fingers through Dylan’s hair. Dylan leaned into it, ducking his head slightly to allow Mitch better access. When Mitch was finished, he tilted Dylan’s head back with fingers against Dylan’s chin, letting the water wash away the suds and the last traces of sweat that were still clinging to Dylan’s skin. 

Mitch stepped out of the shower, and Dylan quickly washed his body before turning off the shower, and wrapping his towel around his waist. 

Mitch was still in the bathroom, a good sign that he hadn’t ventured far. He was toweling off his hair, and Dylan stepped up behind him wrapping his arms around Mitch’s waist. He pressed a kiss to the top of Mitch’s shoulder. 

“Babe,” he said. 

Mitch sighed. He turned in Dylan’s arms, pressing a quick peck to Dylan’s mouth. 

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asked. 

“I hate that you’re so gentle with me,” Mitch said. “I’m not going to break.” 

Dylan refrained from saying that he already kind of did. It was pointless. In their lives, anyone could be injured at any time, and at their age any injury could lead to the end of their careers. Dylan knew that. He was okay with it, he had to be in order to keep playing hockey year after year. 

He just hated when it was Mitch. 

“I know,” he said. 

Mitch gave him the eye. “Do you?” he asked. “Because you’ve been so fucking careful with me this whole summer--” 

“I haven’t--” Dylan started to protest, but Mitch’s glare cut him off. He sighed. “I just hate that it happened when I was so far away, that I couldn’t be there for you.” 

“You think I like it any better?” Mitch asked. “Do you think it was any easier for me when you broke your leg?” 

Dylan knew it hadn’t been. He knew that Mitch was out of his mind with worry, and that Dylan hadn’t helped things along by being a cranky asshole. It was one of the roughest patches of their relationship, and things hadn’t fully gotten back on track between them until Dylan came home from the summer and could start his proper rehab. 

“Have I been that bad?” Dylan asked, deflating. 

“No,” Mitch said. He brought his hand up to Dylan’s chin, turning him to face Mitch. “No,” he said again, more gently. “I’m just… I’m frustrated with my progress,” he admitted. Dylan had thought as much for weeks, but every time he tried to talk to Mitch about it, he’d brushed Dylan off. 

“It just sucks,” Mitch said. “Getting old sucks. I dunno, what if they trade me or something?” 

“They’re not going to trade you,” Dylan said, gut clenching up in fear even as he offered reassurances. Mitch couldn’t be traded, he belonged in Toronto. That was his city, that was their _home_. 

Mitch shrugged. “You know how these things go.” 

They had both seen enough teammates come and go over the years. They both understood the nature of the business. But that wouldn’t happen to Mitch. Would it? 

“Have you talked to anyone?” Dylan asked. 

“Nah,” Mitch said. Then, “My agent, a bit. Just discussing contingency plans, I guess.” 

“You didn’t think to talk about it with me?” Dylan asked, slightly hurt. They didn’t keep this kind of thing from each other. 

Mitch met his eyes. “I should have,” he admitted. “I wanted to. I was, fuck.” He ran a hand through his wet hair, and Dylan grabbed both his wrists, pulling Mitch to his body. “I was scared. I’m scared, I don’t like this.” 

“That’s what I’m here for, ding dong,” Dylan said. 

Mitch smiled at him, and it only looked a little bit tired around the eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.” 

Dylan hugged him. “It’s okay,” he said, and pressed a kiss to the top of Mitch’s head. “Wanna talk about it now?” he asked. 

“I guess that’s probably a good idea,” Mitch said. “We should get dressed?” he looked unsure. 

Dylan hated that look on his face. He hated it when Mitch was seventeen and they had just lost at world juniors, he hated it at eighteen when he didn’t know if he was good enough to make the Leafs. He hated it every time it crossed Mitch’s face between then and now, and the only thing he wanted to do was make sure Mitch never had to feel like that, not when Dylan was around. 

He pinched Mitch’s ass. 

Mitch yelped, jumped into the air and laughed. “God,” he said. “You’re the fucking worst.” 

Dylan wrapped his arms around Mitch’s waist, drawing him in close again. He bit at Mitch’s jaw, tongue running along clean, slightly stubbled skin. “Am I?” he asked, breath hot against Mitch’s ear, just to watch him shiver. 

It worked, and Dylan didn’t think he would ever get sick of Mitch reacting to that.

“Only if you make me talk,” Mitch said, voice taking on a breathy tone. 

“You have something else in mind for your mouth?” Dylan asked. His fingers wandered down over Mitch’s waist, and lower, finding the crease of his ass. 

“Alright, come on,” Mitch said, grabbing Dylan’s wrist and towing him towards the bedroom. “We’ll talk later.” 

Dylan grinned, and found he couldn’t argue with that.


	4. Chapter 4

Dylan loved training camp. 

There was always a sense of excitement in the air. New beginnings. Old and new teammates coming together. Dylan especially loved seeing the young guys come up, either from the draft, or prospect camp. There was always this sense of… becoming about them. Dylan didn’t know how else to put it. 

As the captain he made sure to make time for everyone, talking to returning guys, and the fresh-faced rookies that were so earnest it was practically painful to look at them. Dylan felt a pang of nostalgia for his younger self. He remembered what it was like when everything was brand new. When he felt like he was going to absolutely _die_ if he didn’t make the team. He could see that look on the young guys faces now, and he wanted to tell them to relax, that everything would be okay. 

Of course, they wouldn’t listen. Dylan wouldn’t have, at that age. 

Luckily he had mellowed in the ten--eleven now, he supposed--years that passed between then and now. A little bit anyway, or maybe he had just learned to hide his excitement better. 

He made sure to stick around at the end of the day, waiting until the rest of the guys had cleared out. Then it was just Dylan and his As. 

“Good summer?” he asked Duclair. 

Duke grinned at him. “Got to go home, speak French all summer, sit by the lake, and lick my wounds.” His voice did come out a little deeper, accent a little thicker than it would be by the end of the week. “You, Stromer?” 

“Good, good,” Dylan said. “Ready to do it all again, eh?” he asked. 

Duke gave him a fist bump. “You know it.” 

Dylan chatted with the coaches a little longer, giving his opinion on some of the young guys when asked. Anderson looked like he’d done nothing but eat and work out all summer, and Dylan couldn’t help but feel proud of his rookie. Not a rookie anymore, he reminded himself. Christ, they grew up so fast. 

He picked up dinner on his way home. Between moving back down, and getting ready for camp, there hadn’t been a lot of time to restock the kitchen. He would put in a grocery order tomorrow before heading back to the rink. His mom wanted to come down and stay with him for a few weeks, but Dylan was hoping to put her off until later in the season. 

“It’s such a busy time,” he told her yesterday over the phone. “And besides, I don’t know if I’m going to have to house one of the new guys yet.” 

“All the more reason to have me there and set up the house,” she told him. “You don’t want some eighteen year old sleeping on a bare mattress, do you?” 

“Mom,” he said, feeling a little bit like a teenager himself. “Come on, I’m not that bad.” 

She gave him a look like she didn’t quite believe it, but Dylan managed to put her off flying out this week, and he was considering that a win for now. 

He flopped down on the couch in his living room, turned on the TV, and opened his takeout. There wasn’t much on, so Dylan just surfed until he found an old episode of the CSI reboot. He wasn’t really paying attention to what was happening, as he ate his food, but it was nice to have some background noise. His house was too quiet otherwise… maybe he should get serious about taking on one of the team’s rookies. 

When he checked the time he decided it wasn’t too late to call Mitch at home. The phone rang twice before Mitch’s voice came on the line. 

“Hey, babe,” he said. 

“Hey,” Dylan said. “How was your day?” 

Mitch talked for a moment, mostly catching Dylan up on the Leafs gossip. Dylan didn’t mind, he had known some of Mitch’s teammates for longer than his own, but he could read well enough between the lines to know see what Mitch wasn’t saying. 

“Okay,” Dylan said when Mitch took a breath. “But I wanted to know about you.” 

Silence on the other end told Dylan how close to the truth he was. 

“They want to keep me out of the preseason,” Mitch said. 

Dylan’s heart sank. That was worse than he thought. “What do the trainers say?” he asked, trying to keep his voice free of worry. 

Mitch sighed. “They say it’s precautionary. To give me a bit more time to get back to one hundred percent, and give the young guys a chance to show their stuff.” 

“But?” Dylan asked, because that sounded pretty reasonable to him. He was only going to be playing in a couple preseason games himself. It was preseason. It didn’t really _mean_ anything. 

“That’s what they said at the end of last season,” Mitch admitted. “Before surgery.” 

“What’s your body telling you?” Dylan asked. He wasn’t a doctor or even a trainer, but he was a hockey player, and they knew how to listen to their bodies--and how to shut them out. 

“I feel okay?” Mitch said. 

“Only okay?” Dylan asked. 

Mitch sighed. “I don’t fucking know, okay, Stromer?” Frustration coloured his voice, and Dylan wished he could be there to take Mitch into his arms. He couldn’t promise that it would be fine, but if he could touch Mitch, reassure them both… It was pointless wishing for these things, but he could hear the same longing from Mitch. 

“Woah,” he said. “I’m just trying to help, here, Marns. You gotta talk to me, stop pushing me out.” 

“I’m not pushing you out,” Mitch said. His mulish tone told Dylan that Mitch knew otherwise. He just didn’t want to admit it. 

Dylan sighed. “Look,” he said. “I’m doing my best to be patient here, Marns, I really am. But I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, you know? We’re supposed to be a team here, and I feel like you’re out there trying to double shift or something.” 

Mitch laughed. “Oh my god,” he said. “That was the worst.” 

Dylan stayed quiet, trying to hide his hurt. It wasn’t that Mitch had to tell him every fucking thing. It was basically impossible with the distance in their relationship, but he thought, at least, they had each other’s back. 

“Hey,” Mitch said, voice soft. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just been hard and I don’t know how to say any of this shit.” 

“Just say it?” Dylan said. “I’ve been asking and asking all summer and you wouldn’t let me in. I don’t know what to do here, babe.” 

“You’re right,” Mitch said. “I just…” he was quiet. Dylan didn’t push him, letting Mitch work out whatever feelings. “I’m just scared that this is it… for me,” he said. 

Dylan sucked in a breath. Mitch had never said anything like that before, never even alluded to feeling like he might not come back from this. If he had, Dylan could have shut that down a long time ago. 

“Okay,” he said. “You know I worked out with you all summer, right?” he asked. 

Mitch sighed. “Yes, Stromer. I was there.” 

“And on ice workouts.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Mitch said. “So what?” 

“So I would have seen it.”

“Seen what?” Mitch asked. 

“If you didn’t have what it takes,” Dylan said. “You kept up with me, didn’t you?” 

“Big deal,” Mitch said. “What, like it’s hard?” 

The joking tone was back in his voice, and Dylan felt his heart unclench. He didn’t know how worried he had been until he felt like things would maybe be okay. 

“Fine,” Dylan said rolling his eyes. “Did Danny say anything about it to you?” Their trainer was notorious, and he worked the two of them hard all summer. 

“No,” Mitch admitted. 

“What did he think?” 

“He thought I was good,” Mitch said. 

Dylan didn’t say anything. 

“Fine,” Mitch said, and Dylan could hear the way he let out a deep breath, the way he relaxed. It was like all the tension he was carrying all summer was suddenly just… less. “You’re right, okay? Are you happy? Is that what you want to hear?” 

“Always,” Dylan said, letting his smugness show in his voice. 

Mitch sighed, but it was playful. 

“You can’t keep that shit in,” Dylan said. “It’s not good for you.” 

“I know.” 

“And it’s not good for me either, okay? I was worried sick.” 

“I’m sorry,” Mitch said. “It’s just been really fucking hard.” 

“That’s what you have me here for, though,” Dylan told him. “I’m supposed to help you with this shit, or at least tell you when you’re being ridiculous.” 

“I know,” Mitch said. “I’m sorry, I was just in my head about it.” 

“I noticed,” Dylan said dryly. 

“They want…” He trailed off, and Dylan waited patiently. “I have an appointment with a sports psychologist,” he said. “For next week.” 

Dylan ran through his schedule in his head. He’d have to clear it with the team but he could probably move some things around. “You want me to come down?” he asked. 

Mitch sucked in a breath. “No,” he said. “Or not yet? I’ll see how it goes and let you know, if that’s okay?” 

“Of course, baby,” Dylan said. “Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Mitch said. He took another deep breath, slightly less shaky this time. “Okay, that’s… good. Thanks.” 

“You know you’re the most important thing to me, right?” Dylan asked. 

“Yeah?” Mitch said. “You too. I mean you are to me, too.” 

Dylan smiled. “All right,” he said. “Good.” 

“Miss you,” Mitch said. 

Dylan missed Mitch too. So fucking much, but for the first time in a long time he felt like the ground beneath them had lost some of its shakiness. “It’s gonna be okay,” he promised. “We’ll work it out.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dylan woke up on the morning on December 23rd in his own bed, the Arizona sun shining through his windows. 

Game day, and more importantly, the team had three days off for Christmas. Dylan was staying at home in Arizona. His parents were going to spend a couple days with Matt, and Ryan was keeping his kids at home to do the whole Santa thing. It wasn’t the first time that the Strome clan wouldn’t be together for the holidays, but it always made Dylan feel a little sad and a little nostalgic. 

Still, it wasn’t like he would be spending the time alone. 

He checked the Leafs flight info on his phone for what felt like the thousandth time. The plane was in the air and on time. Dylan wouldn’t see Mitch until after both teams’ morning skate, as the Leafs were heading straight to the rink, but Mitch was close. 

Dylan tried not to rush through his morning routine. There was no point in it, he wouldn’t get to see Mitch any sooner, but there was a giddy excitement bubbling up inside him that was hard to fight down. They Skyped almost daily, and texted constantly, but that wasn’t the same as being able to see Mitch in person, touch him, hold him. 

God, Dylan missed him so much. 

Somehow he made it through breakfast. He read the news on his tablet and texted with Connor and Ryan. Ryan said the packages Dylan mailed for the kids arrived. He attached a picture of Sandy and Keegan sitting under the tree and shaking their gifts. It was adorable. Keegan looked just like Ryan did at that age, and Sandy was all her mom except she had a mop of brown curls that were just like Dylan’s. 

He loved them so much. 

_Sorry in advance_ , Dylan texted him back. 

_Why? Are the toys loud? Do they need batteries? I swear to fucking god, bro_

Dylan just texted back a devil emoji. 

He got to the rink only a few hours early, and did some video review with a few of the young guys. Halfway through the season and the shine hadn’t worn off these guys. Dylan hoped it would be a long time before it did. 

He didn’t stay on the ice very long for skate, just going through a couple line rushes. He didn’t have any media, so he was free to shower and leave after the team meeting. He stuck around, getting lunch with a couple of the D-men. Dylan noticed that things were a bit tense between Joey and Davison and he wanted to work it out before it had time to fester and grow into any real drama. 

Turned out the guys were just sick of spending too much time together, rooming at home and on the road. “It’s okay to spend time with other people,” Dylan told them. “In fact, it’s healthy. Get some alone time. Get laid. Do whatever you gotta do, boys, okay?” 

They nodded, but more importantly, they hugged it out. 

He lingered for a little longer, talking with Derek the equipment guy about his skates. Dylan wanted them sharpened before tonight’s game they were feeling a little wonky on the ice. Derek said he would take care of it. 

“Thanks, my man,” Dylan said, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Finally feeling like he waited long enough, he made his way back to ice level, taking a quiet seat on the home bench. 

It was a while before anyone noticed him, but Dylan didn’t mind. His eyes were drawn to Mitch right away, and he just watched the way he skated. The way he joked with Matthews as they waited for their turn to run through the drill. 

Dylan smiled, his chest aching. 

Eventually someone spotted him, and Mitch turned in his direction. Even from all the way across the ice, Dylan could see the way his grin split his face in two. He waved. Mitch waved back. Echoing across the ice, Dylan heard “Get a room!” and Mitch’s shouted, “Fuck you, _we will_.” 

The team burst into whoops and whistles and Dylan laughed, drinking it all in. He wanted this. He wanted it _all the time_. They’d been close once, when Dylan became a UFA, but the Leafs couldn’t make it work, and Dylan--as much as he’d love to go home--was happy in Arizona. He had a home and a life here too. 

Mitch skated over to him when their practice was done. “Hi,” he said, still grinning. 

Dylan dropped his elbows on the boards and grinned back. “Hey,” he said. “Good practice?” 

“You should know,” Mitch said. “You watched the whole thing, you creep.” 

“I’m not a creep!” Dylan protested. 

“Or, or, you’re an infiltrator! Trying to get inside information on the enemy!” 

“Oh my god,” Dylan said, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t stop smiling. “Do you want to shower so we can get out of here or what?” 

“Or what,” Mitch said, but he skated off. 

They went back to Dylan’s and napped together before the game. Mitch looked at the latest art from Sandy and Keegan on Dylan’s fridge, gleefully pointing things out. 

“I know, “Dylan said. “You’ve seen this before, anyway.” 

“Over Skype,” Mitch said. “It’s not the same.” 

It really wasn’t. 

Dylan slept great, the same as he always did whenever he and Mitch could be together. They drove to the arena together, going separate ways once inside. 

“I’d wish you luck, but…” Mitch said. 

Dylan stuck out his tongue. 

The game… well, whether the outcome of the game was a good one depended on who you asked. 

“Did you have to get a hat trick?” Dylan asked when Mitch stepped out of the visitors locker room looking freshly scrubbed. His hair was still wet, curling around his ears, and his shirt was undone at the collar. Dylan could see his tie poking out of his jacket pocket. 

Mitch grinned. He walked over to Dylan until he was right in Dylan’s space and wrapped his arm around Dylan’s waist before pressing a kiss to Dylan’s cheek. “Only the best for you, babe,” he said. 

Dylan tried to scowl, but couldn’t. It was Christmas, and Mitch was here. 

“Let’s go home,” he said. 

They held hands on the drive back to Dylan’s house, and Dylan only let go when it was absolutely necessary. He probably took a couple turns wider than he should have, but he didn’t want to stop touching Mitch. 

Mitch giggled at his phone while they wait for a red light, and Dylan looked over at him. “What’s so funny?” he asked. 

“I’ll show you at home,” Mitch said. His thumb stroked across Dylan’s knuckles. 

Dylan parked in the garage, and they both grabbed their bags from the back seat before heading inside. Mitch took his shoes off inside the door and dropped his bag to the floor like he owned the place. It made Dylan’s heart swell a little, honestly. 

Dylan grabbed them both water from the kitchen, and after they change into more comfortable clothes, they settle on Dylan’s bed. Mitch snuggled up close to him. “Here,” he said. “Watch this.” 

It was a Sportsnet segment on Mitch and Dylan. The headline of the article read, ‘Strome and Marner: Rekindling An Old Rivalry?’

“Oh my god,” Dylan said. “How did you even see this?” 

“Connor sent it to me,” Mitch said. “It aired before the game, apparently.” 

Dylan laughed. The video clip began to play, giving a brief history of Mitch and Dylan’s playing careers, both together and apart. They showed an old clip of them from Dylan’s first world juniors, and it was hard to believe they’d ever been that young. 

“This is hilarious,” Mitch said. 

Dylan agreed. 

When the clip went dark, he took the phone from Mitch’s hand, and set it on the bedside table. “So what do you say?” he asked. “Want to rekindle some old rivalries?” 

Mitch laughed into the kiss.

-

Dylan woke up on Christmas morning to Mitch snuggled up next to him, snoring. It was too early for the sun to be fully up, and part of him wanted to creep out into the living room to ransack his presents, just like he and Ryan and Matt used to do when they were kids.

Instead, he brushed the hair away from Mitch’s forehead and watched him sleep. It wasn’t creepy, Dylan told himself, because he got Mitch for so few days. He had to treasure every single second of the time they were together, even if it meant watching Mitch while he slept. 

His eyelashes were ridiculously long, fanned out across his cheeks. He looked younger, more like the kid Dylan had fallen in love with. He ran the tips of his fingers over the bridge of Mitch’s nose, his cheeks, watched when Mitch twitched adorably in his sleep. 

Eventually, Dylan lost patience and pressed a kiss to Mitch’s jaw. Then another. He kissed all the way down Mitch’s body, stopping at the spots he’d long since worked out as sensitive. Mitch slowly came awake under Dylan’s hands and mouth, and it was a while before they made their way into the living room to open presents. 

Dylan cooked them both breakfast, savouring the joy of a sleepy and sex rumpled Mitch smiling in his kitchen. The coffee brewed, filling the kitchen with its pleasant aroma, and even though there wasn’t any snow on the ground, it was already one of Dylan’s favourite Christmases. 

“I can’t believe you haven’t made us open our presents yet,” Dylan said once they both finished their meals. 

A brief look of--something--crossed Mitch’s face, gone before Dylan could decipher it. “Presents!” he said in his usual good cheer, then bodily dragged Dylan into the living room. 

Despite it being just the two of them, underneath the tree was full to bursting with presents. A lot were from Dylan’s family, some from his team, and the rest Mitch had dropped off when they arrived. 

They always saved their presents from each other for last. It wasn’t long before they were both completely surrounded by discarded paper and wrapping. Dylan held out his hand expectantly. “Gimme,” he said. 

“Wow,” Mitch said. “Greedy much? Who said I even got something for you anyway?” 

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Don’t even, man. I want my pressie. Give it.” 

That same look crossed Mitch’s face from earlier, except this time Dylan recognized it: nervousness. 

“Come on,” he said, bumping his shoulder against Mitch’s and snuggling them close together. “It can’t be worse than the year you got me balls to hang off the back of my truck.” 

Mitch barked out a laugh. “I _panicked_ , okay? It was our first year together as a couple.” 

“And nothing says romance like testicles hanging off the bumper of a pickup truck,” Dylan agreed. 

“God,” Mitch said. “Fuck you, you’re the worst.” 

Dylan tickled him until Mitch finally gave in and cried uncle. “Now give me my gift,” he said. 

Mitch still looked a little bit nervous, but he pulled a card out of the back of his pants. 

“Where did you have that?” Dylan asked. “Those shorts don’t have pockets.” 

Mitch rolled his eyes. “Just shut up and open it, okay?” 

Dylan did, making a big production out of opening the envelope and pulling out the paper inside. Mitch rolled his eyes, but he looked slightly less freaked out, which was Dylan’s goal. 

He looked down at the paper. It was a white piece of cardstock, and written in Mitch’s scratchy handwriting was _I.O.U one acceptance speech_. 

Dylan flipped the card over, but it was blank on the back. He looked down at Mitch’s message again, but it didn’t make any more sense. 

“Mitch,” he said. “I don’t…” 

“It’s for when I win the Art Ross this year,” Mitch said. 

“What?” Dylan asked. Mitch was having an amazing season, it was true. He was currently on a twenty game point streak, and the next closest person in the race--Connor, of course--was ten points back. There was still a long season ahead of them, but Mitch was having a career season. 

“I thought I was done,” Mitch said. 

“Marns,” Dylan gasped. “What?” 

Mitch shook his head. “After last season, and the recovery… It felt like… I don’t know, it felt like I wasn’t going to get back here. That I’d be just some barely there player for the rest of my career, or that I wouldn’t even _have_ a career. But you--” Mitch blinked, and cleared his throat. “You believed in me, Stromer. All summer, you wouldn’t even let me think those things, and I don’t think-- no, I _know_ I wouldn’t be where I am right now if you hadn’t pushed me. So. Thanks. And I love you.” 

It was Dylan’s turn to blink. His eyes stung and his throat felt tight. He didn’t know how to feel or react, or what to say. 

“Marns…” he said again. 

Mitch held out his arms, and Dylan fell into his embrace. They hugged for a long time, Mitch’s face pressed against Dylan’s neck. 

“I got you a watch too,” Mitch said, when he pulled back. His chuckle was a little watery. “But yeah, that’s the real gift.” 

Dylan looked down at the crushed piece of paper. “I love it,” he said. “I love _you_.” 

Dylan’s present--a trip to Portugal in the offseason--was a little bit anticlimactic after that. They cleaned up the wrapping paper, and Mitch went to the kitchen to get them both another cup of coffee. They settled on the couch, Mitch tucked into the crook of Dylan’s shoulder, and Dylan felt like his heart would burst out of his chest, that’s how perfect everything was. 

He pressed a kiss to the top of Mitch’s head and sighed. It was going to be another good year.

**Author's Note:**

> the chances of all these guys being on their current teams in 10 years is pretty slim to none but *jazz hands* I do what I want


End file.
